


Family Matters

by journeycat



Series: The Cavall Clan [2]
Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Protector of the Small - Tamora Pierce, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Bickering, Future Fic, Gen, Illnesses, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 04:42:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4773938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/journeycat/pseuds/journeycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With young, sick children and a family friend that just won't go away, Wyldon leads a rather hectic and tiring life - but he wouldn't trade it for anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Family Matters

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for Wyldon Winter at Goldenlake in November of 2009.

“Eat your vegetables, Cal.”

A familiar, stubborn pout. “No.”

“You can’t leave the table until you do.”

“I don’t want to.”

Wyldon slammed his fork down on his plate and said sharply, “Accalon, don’t ever let me hear you speak to your mother like that again. Do as she says, and finish what’s on your plate.”

The boy hunched over, pushing his congealing greens miserably around his plate with his fork. He was the sullen age of eight and inexplicably prone to tantrums and disrespect, and Wyldon was at his wits' end with him. Keladry might dismiss it as a phase, but no child of his would be so unruly. Accalon stuck a tiny morsel in his mouth, his pained expression as though he was walking to the executioner’s block. Satisfied, Wyldon returned to the last scraps of his meal when that blasted Queenscove leaned over to Accalon and whispered conspiratorially,

“I never ate my vegetables and I turned out just fine. Don’t listen to him.” 

“See, Father, Uncle Neal says I don’t need to eat them!”

“Damn you, Queenscove,” Wyldon snapped. “How many times must I tell you, stop interfering with my parenting. I don’t want my son’s head filled with your rubbish.”

“You’re too strict on them. Goddess knows someone needs to make them smile—”

“And what exactly are you saying? That I don’t care about them?”

“I prefer to think it was implied that you treat your hounds with more respect than your children.”

“That’s the last straw—”

“I’m going to check on Lalasa, see if there’s change with Isa and Lance.” Keladry’s voice was quiet, but it silenced the argument instantly. “If you’ll excuse me.”

She made little sound. She did not weep and flee the room or throw her plate across the room as some were want to do. She piled her silverware on her half-filled plate and laid her napkin on top, gently pushed her chair in, and left the room. She wore her blank Yamani Mask the whole time, polite and unruffled to an undiscerning eye, but Wyldon had not seen her this upset in a long while. He must have a cold heart, to argue with her best friend while she surely worried over the children as much as he did—she had even begged her former maid to come to Cavall and act as nursemaid in the quarantined nursery, and she never would have bothered the mistress if she had not been frightened. 

He flushed with shame and saw Queenscove do the same. Accalon stared forlornly after her.

“I’ll eat my vegetables if you want,” he said in a small voice.

“No,” Wyldon said quietly, feeling guilty. “You may go.”

Accalon hesitated a moment, then hopped down from his chair and ran after her. His greens remained mostly untouched. The two men were alone. Queenscove fingered his spoon uneasily. 

With a sigh, Wyldon dropped his face wearily in his hands. His head was beginning to throb. All this, it was just too much—he was getting old and tired and he had once looked forward to spending these years doddering around Cavall with Vivenne. Now he had another family, a young one and at times difficult to handle, and his wife was far more private than Vivenne had been and gone from Cavall nearly as much as he was.

He heard Queenscove shift in his seat and said, his voice muffled in his hands, “You’re free to return to your quarters. It gets drafty so I had the maids bring you extra blankets.”

“Thank you, sir,” the younger man said uncertainly, “but—I didn’t mean to cause—problems.”

He called him _sir_. He always had, although his rank allowed him to call him by name. And it was also as close to an apology as he would get.

“Perhaps it’s my fault,” Wyldon muttered. “I’m a little hard on them, I know. If I hadn’t pushed Lancelot so hard—”

“That was not your fault.” Queenscove’s voice was too firm to leave room for doubt. “This fever's been going around half of Tortall, and it was Isa who got it first, besides."

That was true, but it didn’t make it any better. “They’re both still deathly ill, and Isolde is just five. I shouldn’t have made Lancelot tilt so much that day. He’s only ten. If something happens...”

“They will not die. They’re my godschildren, and my best friend’s children, and gods know you’ll never forgive me if I don’t do everything I can. I swear by Mithros, I will not let them die.”

Wyldon stared at him for a long time, and Queenscove stared back stubbornly. He saw him a little differently this time, as a man barely past his prime, who never saw his children because he was still young and strong and the Crown needed him. Who was Wyldon to deny him a family he loved as much as his own?

Perhaps he egged them on and encouraged their mischief, but they were children after all, and Lancelot was a good, diligent first-year page despite all of Queenscove’s influence. Or perhaps even because of it.

And really, Accalon was still a child—page training would certainly whip him into shape. Just because Wyldon’s father had been a hard man did not mean he had to be, as well. After four lovely daughters with Vivenne, he had not been prepared for sons.

“I suppose,” Wyldon said finally, “he doesn’t have to eat all his vegetables if he doesn’t want to.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Queenscove scoffed. “I never would be as strong as I am now if Kel hadn’t pushed me to eat mine.”

Wyldon frowned and said, “But you shouldn’t push a child to do what he clearly doesn’t want to do.”

“You’re just being paranoid. Vegetables are important—”

“Queenscove, if I say he doesn’t have to eat his vegetables then damn it, he doesn’t have to—”

“Fine, then have some weedy little boy for a son, and make sure you let him know he’s weak because his father didn’t make him eat his vegetables!”

“That’s _it_ , Queenscove, I’ve had enough of your _impertinent mouth_ —”


End file.
